


Be Our Guest

by BriaLlama



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, and want some semblance of what it's about, are going to suck, belatedly, but I did, i thought of you, i was almost done formatting everything, i'm so angry, in case you're just looking at the tags, ps this is a beauty and the beast au, so i have to type all of my tags again, there you go, ugh i accidentally refreshed the page, uuuuuuugh, which means the tags you get
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-18
Updated: 2013-07-18
Packaged: 2017-12-20 13:41:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/887922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BriaLlama/pseuds/BriaLlama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the pack finds themselves locked in an enchanted castle, slowly turning into mundane objects such as a candlestick, a clock, and teacups. It seems eerily familiar, especially when their alpha becomes obsessed with some kind of flower, and they all sing way too much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Be Our Guest

**Author's Note:**

> I don't want to type all of this AGAIN. Angry authors are the worst authors  
> Basically this is my take on a beauty and the beast au blah blah blah  
> i might retype this less angrily later. no promises.
> 
> this is unbeta'd. had to edit myself. do not feel like typing author's notes over again. will get to other requests later. going on hiatus soon. blah blah blah. 
> 
> enjoy the fic. blah blah.
> 
> -does angry shifty eyes-
> 
> i hope the goodness of the fic redeems my terrible mood.

"This can't be the place." Erica thought aloud. "And even if it is, there's no way I'm going in there. It looks like it's covered in cobwebs and dust, and I don't know if you've noticed, but my pants are black. And new." She cast a disdainful look around.

"I'm with Erica. That place looks entirely too creepy. I'm not stepping one foot across this gate." Lydia said with a tone of finality.

"You guys have no sense of adventure." Allison scolded, but she too secretly wanted nothing to do with the place. She looked at Scott, the one who had found it.

"I swear, this is where it was. I tracked that scent for days. This is where it lead." He defended himself.

"I trust Scott. If this is where we need to be, I say we check it out." Isaac agreed.

"Just get moving." Derek said gruffly, ready to be done with this wild goose chase. "It's about to start raining, and god forbid Lydia's hair get wet. I think she'd single handedly kill us all."

"It's true." She muttered, but cast an anxious look to the sky, then back to the object of discussion. Then back to the sky. "I could always go wait in the car..."

"No," Allison grabbed her arm, pulling her forward. "We're going in there, and you all are going to stop complaining." She marched purposefully forward, before her own irrational fear kept her from moving into the courtyard.

"Please do." Jackson said, "I'm getting sick of listening to all of you."

Which, granted, was creepy enough in itself. There was a broken down carriage, the rotting wood all but merged into the bushes and overgrowth. There may have once been a beautiful garden, but any sign of it had long since worn away. The brick path was crumbling from its previous days of beautiful mosaic design, and as the group got closer and closer to the doors, their footsteps seemed to grow muffled in the presense of such an immensity.

"Remind me why I'm even here?" Lydia snapped, using annoyance and a holier-than-thou attitude to keep her fear at bay.

"Because if we catch the guy, you're the only one who knows what to say to him. You're our translator, remember? Plus you have this really creepy habit of seeing ghosts and visions and things. You're actually our best chance here." Allison reminded her.

"I'm pretty sure if the he were here, we would be able to tell." Isaac looked to both sides before turning his attention to the door that they had reached. "This door hasn't been opened in ages. He probably went around the side." He said with a hopeful tone.

Rain began to fall from the sky slowly. The pack looked up, Lydia glaring at the clouds, Derek simply appraising them, and everyone else looking slightly annoyed. "It doesn't matter where he went, I'm going inside." Lydia declared, the rain finally making her mind up for her.

"What happened to 'I'm not stepping one foot across that gate' Lydia?" Allison teased.

"You already dragged me across the gate. And so now that I'm here, I'm going in. Maybe there's a fireplace, or something." Lydia answered. "And if there is, I'm finding it. I can handle a little bit of creepy."

"Maybe?" Scott scoffed. "This place is a castle, it's probably got at least ten."

"Maybe even fifty." Erica chimed in.

"Whatever. I'll settle for one. Help me open this behemoth that is supposed to be a door."

Derek reached for the handle and pulled. The door didn't budge. Scott added his strength, and soon the entire pack was pulling with all of their might. "It's probably locked." Scott said, wiping his brow.

Lydia was standing back, watching the spectacle with pursed lips and amusement. "Or maybe you could try pushing." She suggested.

Isaac did. The door opened surprisingly easily, without even a creak. He cast an anxious glance at the group, then stepped inside.

"I hate to be captain obvious," His voice echoed in the grand entryway. "But it's dark in here."

"There's a flashlight back in the car." Allison said. "I'll go get it."

Everyone else had shuffled inside by the time Allison got back. "So, this may sound really paranoid, but I swear we parked the car a lot closer than that. It's moved." She said uneasily, turning the flashlight on. The beam of light captured a small space which, true to Erica's prediction, was a mass of dust and cobwebs.

"See? I told you." She said.

"Yes, we get it. You're psychic." Boyd finally spoke up. "Now can we please find that fireplace Lydia promised? It's even colder in here than it was outside."

Their footsteps were muffled by the thick layer of grime that had taken up residence on the floor, but every time they moved someone flinched, feeling as though the soft footfalls were somehow echoing through the cavernous building, each minute noise amplified by the emptiness of it.

After a length, they found a fireplace, conveniently stocked with wood, albeit following the dust-covered rule of the rest of the castle. "Okay, so who can light this thing?" Jackson asked.

Allison slung the backpack off of her shoulder, rifling through it. "I also grabbed most everything else that was in the car." She said as she searched, mostly to keep silence from falling. She pulled out a flare, looking triumphant in the glow of the flashlight. She sparked it, and everyone shielded their eyes at the sudden brightness, a couple of the werewolves actually emitting sounds of pain. "I don't know why I didn't just use one of these from the beginning," she muttered, "But hey, it works fine now." She tossed it onto the logs, and soon a roaring fire was crackling.

"So I guess we'll settle here for the night and resume our hunt in the morning? I don't really like the idea of splitting up in this place, especially at night." Scott suggested.

"What, it's not like it's haunted." Derek argued.

"No, but we're all paranoid enough to convince ourselves that is by morning." Lydia shot back. Derek had to concede that she had a point, something he was far more used to doing than he liked.

"Anyway, I think it's a terrible idea, because I am not sleeping on this floor. Or even sitting on it." She folded her arms across her chest.

"It's a castle, I'm sure there are bedrooms. We just have to find one. With a fireplace." Isaac said from where he and Boyd were rubbing their hands in front of the fire.

"We've already wasted one of our flares on this fire, we may as well wait until it dies down to find a new spot." Derek said. "We'll stay here, and if you guys are still awake by then, we can go and find a bed for the princess Lydia."

Lydia tossed her hair, pulling up a bench to the fire and staring disdainfully at the dust. "Fine. But you're buying me a new dress when we get out of here." She did her best to get as much dust off of it as she could without choking, and sat on it. Allison sat next to her, and they leaned on one another wearily.

"Three weeks of tracking down this guy that we know nothing about, except that he keeps setting up effigys and burning them for no apparent reason, which is causing magical disturbances for also no apparent reason, and so far all we've managed is to land ourselves in a giant castle with a fire and dust." Lydia summed up. "This is so much fun."

Nobody had anything to say to that. Everyone agreed with her. They sat in silence, and it settled in so thick that by the time anyone had anything to say, they were afraid to say it. The fire continued to crackle merrily.

#

Stiles sighed for the fifteenth time in fifteen minutes, his fifteenth call going unanswered. He still wasn't sure why he had been left behind, but he suspected it had something to do with the last hunt the pack went on and the fact that Stiles had ended it with a two week stint in the hospital. He snorted, trying Jackson's phone this time. He waited patiently as he listened to it ring, and then, "You have reached the automated voicemail of-" He hung up.

He tossed his phone onto his bed, blowing out a gust of air. At first he had been doing his bit to help, looking things up, keeping a home contact with the pack, letting them know that there was nothing dangerous in town lurking about that might demand their immediate turn around and abandonment of the hunt. But for a few days now, he hadn't been able to reach thim. And nobody had called him to tell him anything. Frankly, he was getting worried. The first day he had been able to assure himself that they were just in an area that got no phone reception. But logically he could think of no reason why they would stay without phone reception for three days without finding some way to call him and let him know that they were okay.

Two days later, he was practically pulling his hair out. His fingernails had been bitten down to stubs, and he had conveniently dropped by three times a day at the hospital to help place more worry on an already equally worried mother of a certain McCall.

To top it off, his dad was working too hard, and Stiles could tell, and it worried him. John sat at the dinner table nearly every night with mounts of paperwork, trying to put together the details of a string of murders that had been happening in the county. It was a strange occurrence, as none of the victims seemed to be residents. The culprit was sloppy enough to alert the police that he was indeed a murderer, but far too clever to let them figure out who it was. It was infuriating.

Personally, Stiles was certain it had to something do with the effigys. Magic didn't leave a trace that the police could find. He told his father as much. John retorted with an explanation of exactly how helpful that information was, given that the rest of the officers had no idea what supernatural occurences went on in Beacon Hills. John himself had only found out a few months prior, much to his distress.

One week after hearing nothing from the pack, Stiles was going through full blown panic. Three days ago a new family of hunters had moved in, the LeGumes, and their daughter Giselle was beginning to grow suspiciously attatched to him. It didn't help that everyone else Stiles associated with (a small group outside of the pack) found Giselle entirely charming, and overall a perfect specimen. Confused and wary, Stiles had taken to hiding with his laptop at the alternating locations of his room and the library, running down his cell phone battery by letting loose an endless stream of calls and texts to everyone that was missing. He hoped the were just too caught up in the chase and had forgotten him, which, yes made him feel useless and lonely, but was definitely better than the alternative of them being dead.

He was sitting at a library table on a Monday morning, chewing on his pencil and making notes about a subject he had picked at random, anything to get his mind off of the missing nature of his pack. He had already informed his dad that he was worried about Scott and co's "camping trip" as they had all chosen to call it, revealing that they hadn't even contacted Melissa. All the concern he got in reply for that had been "They're werewolves. They know what they're doing." But he knew his father was worried too. He just didn't know what to do about it. So here he was, knee bouncing at a rapid pace, and his eraser almost gone.

And there she was again. Giselle. He sighed heavily, burying his nose in his book, hoping that she wouldn't notice him.

"Hey Stiles." Her voice reached his ears. He cringed, cursing his rotten luck.

"Hey Giselle." He said casually, looking up and trying to act surprised. "Didn't see you there. I was, you know, reading. Which I'd really like to get back to so, it's nice to see you!" He said hurriedly, turning his attention back to the text.

"You read too much." Giselle shook her head, sliding into the seat next to him, leaning her elbows on the table. "What are you reading anyway?" She grabbed the book roughly out from under him, holding it like a foreign object.

"It's uh, it's about the mating habits of the preying mantis." He said afer reading the cover. Was that what he'd been reading about? He cringed again.

"This looks disturbing." Giselle's eyes widened. She shut the book and pushed it across the table, away from them, turning her attention back to Stiles. "So you still haven't given me an answer." She pressed him, an expectant look on her face.

"Uh, an answer?" Stiles asked, scratching the back of his neck in confusion. He tried not to make it a habit of listening to anything the girl had to say. She was insane. And airheaded.

"Yes, an answer. It's like you don't even listen to me." She complained. "I asked you two days ago if you wanted to take me to dinner, and frankly, I'm confused as to why you haven't said yes yet. Nobody is stupid enough to pass up a chance with this." She pulled out a mirror, smiling at her own reflection.

Stiles wanted to gag at how cocky she was. She was like Jackson, only in female form, and infinitely stupider. And probably a lot handier with a gun, given the nature of her family.

"I don't want to take you to dinner." He said, only a little afraid that she would bash his head in. "I'm kind of busy, you know, with studying." He threw out the excuse habitually. "I've got things to learn if I want to get into a good college, you know."

"You know there's more to life than books, right?" Giselle said with the air of someone who thought they were being deep and meaningful, but failing miserably despite their best attempts, and having no knowledge of it. Stiles did his best not to laugh at her. "Things like, well like me. And happily ever afters. And marriage." She smiled at Stiles, a sickening, self-obsessed expression. "Don't you want to get married, Stiles? Nobody likes a nerd, you know. And you're too pretty for people not to like you."

"I'll take my chances." Stiles said hastily, not at all pleased with the way the conversation was going. He preferred fretting over the fate of his pack. He stood, grabbing his books and shoving them into the bag with his laptop. "So I have to go, I'm meeting my dad for a uh, for a thing."

"Right. Your dad. Because he's so on top of things." Giselle mused, looking down at her fingernails and picking at one of them.

Stiles whirled around. "What is that supposed to mean?" He demanded.

"Like you don't know. You live with the guy." Giselle said, seeming confused that he didn't share her view. "He's a crazy old crackpot who can't do his job anymore. He knows more than he's letting on, and he isn't letting on about it because he knows he's insane." She said smugly. Her family was hellbent on ousting John as the sheriff, hoping to take over and take the law into their own hands. Stiles clenched his fists.

"My dad is not crazy, and you know it." He growled at her. "I don't know what you're trying to pull here, but I'm telling you now, it's not going to work." And with that he turned on his heel, storming out of the library. He threw his bag into his Jeep and sat in the parking lot for a moment, trying to calm down. It wouldn't do anyone any good if he got in a rage induced accident on the way home.

At dinner that night, he picked at his food. "I'm sure they're fine, son" John tried to reassure him, but his own appetite seemed equally as diminished.

"Yeah." Stiles offered, though more than just fear for the pack was rifling through him now. He looked up at his father suddenly.

"Am I weird?" He asked. It made him uncomfortable, what Giselle had said. _Nobody likes a nerd_. His only friend before all of this werewolf business had been Scott, and now he meshed well with everyone else, probably, he thought, only because of all of the werewolf business.

"Weird? No. A little bit crazy? Probably. But heaven help us, aren't we all." John sighed.

Stiles shrugged. He couldn't deny that. But the crazy bit stuck, prompting his next question. "Do you ever worry that people think, maybe, you are actually crazy?" He asked, half referring to himself, and half referring to his dad.

The sheriff opened his mouth, then closed it again. He shrugged, grunting. "Sometimes I worry that I am actually crazy. I mean, werewolves?" He cast the millionth disbelieving look at his son in months, trying to deny the fact that they existed even though he had seen Scott shift a number of times. He had a hard time denying what he saw.

That officially shut down Stiles' appetite entirely. "Yeah." He mumbled, pushing his food around his plate.

"But hey, no matter how crazy we get, you're still my son, and I still love you." John said.

Stiles felt a smile quirk his lips. "Yeah, I love you too dad."

#

Most of the dust was gone. Allison had taken it upon herself to find a broom, a mop, a duster, anything, and had spent the past week in a cleaning frenzy. It would have freaked everyone out more, if they hadn't been hellbent on jobs of their own.

Scott lit all of the candles and torches lining the walls and organized the cabinets, making sure everything was in tiptop condition. He opened curtains, made sure that everyone could see.

Lydia and Isaac prepared the refreshments, making absolute certain that everybody was comfortable.

Erica made sure they had clothes, going through various wardrobes and practically dressing everyone, sewing and stitching and making alterations at the speed of light.

Jackson spent his time doing exactly that, keeping time. He made a list of chores for people, directed them, and the pack found out exactly just how hard he could make them work. And the rules he set, heaven help them if they broke any of his rules.

As it turned out, Boyd was an excellent cook, and he lorded over the kitchens, doing his best impression of a strict, insane chef.

But Derek. Derek was acting as if he owned the place. He was the taskmaster behind Jackson, the one keeping the entire operation running. He was the king of this castle, and nobody bothered to dare cross him. He was kind enough, fair enough, but firm.

What nobody seemed to find strange was that they weren't inclined to leave. It was as if the castle had taken them over, using them against their will to amend its own desires of being clean and occupied once more. Their pack of supplies they had initially come in with lay abandoned in a closet in the entryway. Everyone was moving as though they had been born in this castle, as if their entire lives revolved around keeping it. No more hunting, no werewolf business, nothing outside the castle mattered anymore.

By the end of the second week, they couldn't even _remember_  life outside the castle. It was as though they had only begun to exist once they got there, and anything before that was as a dream, some fantasy land or imaginary scene. As it followed, nobody could remember Stiles, either.

Derek had taken up residence in the west wing, emerging only at mealtimes, and causing worry to everyone else. Scott had taken the liberty of venturing up one evening, and found Derek curled around a glowing flower, muttering to himself. He seemed upset, and had gone into such a rage at finding Scott there that Scott declared the area off limits to the rest. Nobody had the courage to challenge it.

By the middle of the third week, they were decidedly less human. The cleaning had been completed, leaving a hole in their lives. They wallowed about, avoiding one another. They noticed that they were beginning to move and feel strangely. But nobody was frightened. They accepted the change as fact, as normal.

By the end of the fourth week, they weren't human at all. In continuing about their self-appointed tasks, they became modeled to efficiency for that one thing. Allison wandered about, her newly feathered bottom sweeping and swishing across the floor, having become a glorious duster. Scott, if he were shocked at seeing her like this, didn't mention it, given that he had become a candlestick, his arms sweeping around and trailing flames. Mostly, he was afraid that he would set Allison on fire if he touched her.

Jackson was a clock, his new face keeping everyone paced at their chores as usual. Lydia allowed herself to be filled with boiling tea, pouring it into Isaac to be a vessel of refreshment to any who would need it. Boyd had become one with the oven, cooking things on his own top with a veangance. Erica refused to emerge from her room, discovering that she had become an armoire, stuffed full of the clothes she had worked so painstakingly to create.

But Derek, Derek had become a full blown werewolf, unable to shift back to being human. He had advanced from his normal form to a large, hairy beast. His reflection seemed to cause him pain, and the west wing became a place of madness and rubble. He stopped coming to mealtimes.

There was no sign of human life anywhere in the castle. The other items would animate long enough for anything necessary to be done, but only just so. Only the pack were live enough to indeed, live. Silence slowly began to fill the castle once more.

#

By the third week, Stiles couldn't remember them either. In fact, nobody could. Stiles had no friends, Melissa had no son, and nobody was concerned that anyone was missing. The old Hale house returned to mystery for the town, and Derek Hale and the werewolves became a thing of a distant nightmare.

Stiles was smart enough to be concerned. The sudden disappearance of Scott from all of his memories, the giant gaps left by the disappearance in the last few years of his memories definitely warranted concern. Melissa felt empty, and nobody could pinpoint the source of her sudden depression. Chris Argent seemed to finally be grieving the loss of his wife, his father, and his sister, though his bouts of anxiety, panic, and worry were foreign to him.

Nobody had any sort of recollection of what was going on. Giselle was getting harder to avoid. And Stiles feared that her accusations of crazy in the Stilinski family were true. Even Deaton seemed affected, as evidenced by the "Now Hiring: Veterinary Assistant" sign now hanging on his door. The pack was gone.

#

"Shhhh. You don't want to wake Derek." Scott hissed, his candlelight glow diminished. He had learned by now how to control his own fire, and the flame he was emitting was only enough to light the small cupboard he and his feather-duster lover Allison were occupying.

"You're the one making me giggle." She breathed at him, batting her ridiculous eyelashes. Scott could vaguely imagine dimples on a face, but the image was lost on the sight before him. Even as a feather duster, Allison was beautiful.

"I wish we could have stayed human." He pressed his forehead, or what passed for his forehead now, against Allison's. "Then I could kiss you properly."

"Well you're just going to have to get used to this." She swished her bottom. "Because the way Derek's going, it's not like he's going to ever find true love to break this curse."

Scott nodded miserably. He remembered the last time Derek had come to dinner. He had stayed long enough to hastily eat and tell the others what he knew, and about the flower. Everyone understood, as if the concept wasn't entirely foreign. As if they had been expecting it. "I just wish he'd stop wallowing. But surely someone can love the lump of grumpy, intimidating, threatning fur he's grown into. Right? If only he'd stop pushing everyone away."

Allison agreed. "What if we left the castle?" She asked suddenly. "Find someone we think could help, bring them here?"

"Allison. I'm a candelabra, and you're a feather duster. We can't just go frolicking around the woods, traipsing down the mountainside. We don't even know where the nearest town is." Scott pointed out. The pair grew silent, their flirtatious mood ruined.

"Scott." Allison whispered. "Do you ever wonder how we got here? What we were like before the castle?" She asked.

"All the time." Scott sighed. "I just. Mostly I feel like something is missing. SomeONE is missing. I just don't know who or what it's supposed to be."

"Me too."

#

"So then I woke up, completely unsure of why I'm having nightmares about really hot werewolves." Stiles concluded. His psychiatrist nodded, making little notes in her tablet.

"Do you think it has something to do with why you are suddenly finding holes in your memory?" She questioned. "Maybe the werewolves represent some past fear, some kind of trauma."

"But why would the biggest, baddest one of all be so attractive? Am I some kind of masochist or something? It's painful and scary, but I like it?" Stiles argued back.

"Are you a masochist?" The psychiatrist prompted.

Stiles sighed. "Not that I know of." He muttered. He searched around for a clock, groaning internally to realize they were only 10 minutes into his hour long session. He had confessed his distress and memory loss to his father, who had taken him to his friend Melissa that worked at a hospital, who had no conclusions for him. There was no physical trauma that she could find, and so she had suggested therapy, figuring it was some inner working of the mind, which was out of her expertise. She found that she had developed a strange fondness for the sheriff's kid, one that seemed to go back farther than she could remember. She didn't dwell on it, though she quickly realized that she was suffering the same symptoms as Stiles. And that frightened her. She wrote down the name of a Ms. Morrell for him, wondering if she should go see the woman herself.

"Stiles?" Morrell's questioning brought Stiles out of his thoughts.

"Hmm? Oh yeah. Me. My memories. Or rather, lack therof. Most of them seem to be centered around school? At least it started that way. Then it bleeds into the rest of my life. It's like, I don't know, I had an imaginary friend of some kind that I met on the playground. And now he's gone." Stiles frowned.

"A friend. Which, as you've stated before, you have none of."

"Yeah." Stiles affirmed sadly. The loneliness he felt at that affirmation was profound, and it threatened to consume him. But it was more than that. It was as if he had had something before, and lost it. And the grief was weighing on him, pressing on the loneliness and threatening to crush him.

"And nobody's interested in being your friend? Or are you simply shunning them in favor of your... imaginary one."

"Well..." Stiles shifted uncomfortably at the thought of Giselle. "There's this girl who's completely hung up on me, and refuses to take no for an answer. She's new in town, and I really don't get why she's so attracted to me. I mean, nobody likes me." He shook his head, and repeated in a softer voice. "Nobody."

"Nobody." Morrell repeated in a professional tone of voice.

"But I swear, there used to be people who did." Stiles insisted. "I just. I can't remember them!"

"So now there's multiple imaginary friends." Morrell observed.

"I guess." Stiles said, becoming moody. His own confusion in addition to the prying was making him agitated. "I feel like it was more of a pack, than just a group of people. You know, the closeness. The bonding. But why wouldn't I be able to remember my own imaginary friends?" He asked desperately.

"A pack. And did any of these friends have a particular obsession with werewolves?"

Stiles hesitated, feeling that the correct answer was yes, there was an obsession with werewolves. But after a moments thought, his subconscious realized that it was less of an obsession and more of a... necessity? He grew more confused.

"Yes. No, I don't know." He sputtered, exasperated. "Can I just go home now?"

"Stiles, it's only been twenty minutes. Your father paid for an hour, do you want to just waste that? Let's talk more about how you feel abandoned by your... pack."

Stiles sank back down in his chair, grumbling.

#

"Stiles." The sheriff cracked open the door to his son's room, dismayed to find it trashed. The bed was unmade, the laptop was open, and the floor was littered with dirty clothes, wadded up paper, and bottles and cans of various sports and energy drinks. And Stiles was worried that his father was going to be the one who died of a heart attack. At this rate, it was more likely to be Stiles himself.

John made his way carefully across the floor, kicking various articles out of his way. Stiles was draped across the bed in his boxers, a book of some sort haphazardly placed over his face. John attempted to peel it off, the pages sticking to the boy's skin by the medium of drool. "Stiles." He repeated, this time adding in a nudge.

Stiles sat up wildly, flailing slightly, the book falling to the mattress with a thump. "D-dad. Hey."

"I'm going to be gone for a while. We've got a new lead on this murderer, and a manhunt has been issued."

Stiles straightened, attentive. "A manhunt? That sounds like fun-" He was cut off.

"No, you most definitely cannot come. You're staying here, and you're going to clean up this mess." John gestured around the room.

Stiles groaned.

"And you've got an appointment with your psychiatrist Tuesday at 3, and if you miss it I will be very cross."

"You take a particular joy in sucking all of my happiness out, don't you?" Stiles grumbled, but climbed to the edge of his bed, pulling on a pair of pants. "How long are you going to be gone?"

"It's just for a few days, I should be back by Thursday."

"Great. Well, you have fun hunting criminals as I sit at home and do the heaps of immensely boring homework that my teachers found fit to assign, despite the fact that it's _Christmas break_ , and continue to be confused as to why I feel like I'm missing half of my life." Stiles sighed.

"Stiles, I'm not abandoning you." His father reassured.

"No, no! Of course you're not! I'm not worried about that, I just." Stiles dropped his head into his hands. "It's really hard. But hey,"He looked back up, a small hope in his eyes. "Maybe an empty house will give me enough quiet time to remember everything I need to know."

"That's the spirit." John clapped his son on the shoulder, then pulled him up for a hug. "I'll see you later, kiddo."

"Bye dad." Stiles mumbled against the shoulder smushed into his face. "Be safe."

#

A small bit of prying revealed to Stiles that the manhunt was taking place in the direction of Francistown, near the more mountainous region. He may or may not have illegally taken a peek at some of the things his dad had left laying around, and beat his head against some of the evidence. He couldn't come up with anything, but he grew increasingly certain that these, these effigys or whatever they were, were somehow involved. He just didn't know how. Nor did he know how he remembered knowing about the effigys, but only so AFTER he re-read about them.

His suspicion increased. He resorted to the internet, spending 34 hours reading page after page and stumbling into the weirdest section of supernatural he figured it held. What was even more strange though, was the fact that his history seemed to remember him visiting these sites. Multiple times. So why couldn't HE remember? He sat, chewing his thumbnail. He had no clue what was going on with him, and it was beginning to scare him.

He grabbed his phone, ready to confide in ...someone. Anyone. He stared at the unlock screen, realizing that he had nobody to go to. His dad was busy. He barely knew Mrs. McCall, though his dad certainly seemed on friendly terms with her. He wondered briefly how he never knew about that, he surely should have stumbled across it in his nosing around at some point. He sighed, flipping to his phone contacts out of sheer boredom and desperation.

The confusion only grew from there. There was a Scotty, and a Lydia, and a Sourwolf in his contacts, among others. And for some strange reason, he had Danny Mahealani's number. He didn't even talk to Danny. He tried to wrap his mind around things, concluding that he had made up numbers for his imaginary friends, and probably had Danny's number from some school project. Which he couldn't remember. But given that there were _so many things_ Stiles simply _could not_ recall, he accepted that. Mostly.

He decided to call his "Scotty", his brain half joking to itself that he was about to be beamed up to the Enterprise. To his immense surprise, the line actually rang. And rang. And rang. So he hadn't just been making up numbers, then? Either that or he had gotten lucky in his random number punching.

No Scotty picked up the phone.

#

"How much time do you think we have left?" Scott asked Jackson. They were perched in the entryway, Jackson's timepieces ticking, the gears behind his clock face whirring. This is the spot they had chosen, where they would wait, day after day, for someone to show up.

"I don't know. Maybe only a few days. Maybe weeks. Months? A year? This kind of thing isn't precedented. Nothing is precedented." Jackson replied.

"Don't tell me you're having similiar angst about the past." Scott sighed. He had hoped it wasn't a castlewide thing, that maybe he and Allison were just crazy.

"I don't know. It's starting to feel weird. Where did we come from? Why are we the only objects that stay alive? Everything else freezes up and becomes immobile after a few hours." Jackson pointed out.

Scott opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off by a loud booming noise.

"Is it just me, or does it thunder like crazy, _every single night?"_ Scott whispered, the thunder putting him on edge.

"Rains, too." Jackson added. "And probably lightning."

Scott sighed.

Just then, the front door to the castle began to creak open, effectively silencing the pair. Scott was holding his breath, and his flames whisked out, smoke drifting through the air.

The door shut, leaving one panicked Sheriff shivering in the entryway. "Hello?" He called. He muttered a bit, and took a few steps forward.

"What do we do?" Scott hissed.

"Nothing. We wait for him to leave." Jackson muttered back.

"Who's there?" John turned around, their voices registering at the bottom of his hearing. "Hello? Is there anyone here?" He called out again, his voice calmer than his stance.

"He's going to wake the master." Scott shot at Jackson. They had taken to calling Derek that. He had devolved to a terrifying ferocity, and Scott was the only one brave enough to approach the west wing. He wasn't, however, brave enough to venture further into it. Derek slowly grew strange and unapproachable, and the pack felt as though they could no longer speak of him by name apart from Lydia, who insisted that it was all nonsense.

Before Jackson could answer, Scott called out to the sheriff. "Hello, good sir." His voice was smooth and welcoming.

"Who's there?" The sheriff turned in their direction, a tremor in his voice. "Show yourself! I'm armed." He had his gun in his hand, and Scott raised his eyebrows, his flames puffing to light.

"Here." He said, and if Jackson could have buried his face into his palm, he would have. As it is, he settled for an agitated expression, his pendulum swinging anxiously.

John pointed his gun at the sudden light, but dropped it, confused at the lack of human presence. "Where?" He asked suspiciously.

"Right here." Scott waved his arms around, earning a start from the sheriff.

"Scott the candle, at your service." Jackson said in a mocking voice.

John stepped closer, astonished. "What...?" He picked Scott up, examining him. He set the candle down at length, picking up Jackson instead.

"How can you talk?" He asked incredulously.

"What? I've always been able to talk!" Scott said disdainfully. Meanwhile John had opened up Jackson's casing and was knocking his pendulum around.

"Stop, st-stop that tickles!" Jackson half laughed, half growled. He slammed his own casing shut, smashing the sheriff's finger. John dropped the clock, sucking his injury.

"How long is always?" He wanted to know.

Scott jumped down to join Jackson on the floor. "Always is always." Scott replied. "But you sir, are wet, cold, and you look like you could use some comfort. Please, come this way." He beckoned, and if the offering of comfort wasn't enough to prompt the sheriff to follow, the quickly fading light was.

"Scott! Scott, this is a terrible idea." Jackson fussed. "If the master finds out..." He gave up when he realized Scott wasn't listening to him.

He looked anxiously from side to side, finally following the sheriff and Scott into the room that, though he didn't remember, was the room the pack had tumbled into when they had first come to the castle.

Isaac and Lydia showed up, and soon there was tea for the shivering sheriff, and a blanket. A roaring fire had crept up, and the sheriff began to relax, still in awe at the magical talking objects. He wondered if he had contracted hypothermia, and was hallucinating. His amusement rose, and he found that he wasn't having a bad time at all, despite being stranded alone in a large castle with talking objects. They seemed familiar to him, and it eased him.

A sudden slam caused him to drop Isaac the teacup, and Lydia scooped him up and fled to the kitchens. Jackson found himself under the rug, terrified of inflicting Derek's wrath. Scott simply stood, shaking. His fires had gone out. John pulled the blanket closer around himself, shivering, his false composure gone.

Derek burst into the room with a roar, furious. "WHO DARES INTRUDE ON MY CASTLE?!" He demanded. He crept around the chair where John was sitting, his bestial visage frightening enough with the lack of light. He snarled. "WHO ARE YOU?"

"I-I was just. I was cold, and lost, and my party got separated, and it was raining and there was shelter," He stammered, sounding alarmingly like his son. "I didn't, I didn't mean. I'll just go, it's not a problem..." He trailed off, shrinking into the chair.

Derek turned to where Scott was shaking. "You KNOW my policy about visitors!" He growled. "You should have made him LEAVE!"

"But Derek, he wasn't doing any harm, we just offered him some tea, he'd be gone by morning-" Scott tried, but Derek wasn't hearing it.

"YOU DISOBEYED MY ORDERS!" He roared. Scott shut up.

Jackson emerged from under the rug. "I told him it was a terrible idea, I told him from the beginning that we shouldn't-"

Derek cut him off too. "GET OUT!" He snarled at them. Jackson grabbed Scott and dragged him out of the room, leaving Derek and John alone.

John was speechless. He was staring into Derek's angry face, and flashes of something similar came to him. He didn't have time to think anything of it, as he was being grabbed roughly and dragged out of the chair and through the castle.

Scott huddled close to Jackson, who had his arms crossed. "This is all your fault." He told the candlestick.

"I was just being hospitable!" Scott protested, nervously watching after Derek.

"Well your hospitality has just landed that man in the dungeons. Congratulations." Jackson snorted before hopping away.

Scott wilted, staring sadly, jumping a little when he heard a cell door slam. He sank into the background, Allison coming up to him and pulling him gently away.

John collapsed into the floor of his cell, memories emerging faster than he knew what to do with. It seemed the cold and the shock were enough to break through the spell barrier's, and that the spell's initial hold on him was lessened due to the fact that it didn't impact him near as much as it did the others. Werewolves, Scott, the pack, everything came back to him, and suddenly he knew what was wrong with his son. His son. He couldn't keep tears from his eyes as he thought of Stiles, whom he might never see again. His son who probably thought he was losing his mind, when really it was just some magic spell that had turned his entire life into shredded paper.

He coughed, realizing that his earlier thoughts about hypothermia probably weren't far off. At this rate, he would end up with pneumonia. And then dead. He wondered if the rest of the party would find him, and what would happen to them if they did. Derek would probably kill them in the insane state that he was in.

He dwelled for a moment, and figured that the memory loss probably went both ways. Scott the candlestick hadn't recognized him, and neither had Derek for that matter. John shrank into the nearest wall, trying to curl up for warmth. For the first time since his wife died, he allowed himself to weep.

#

Stiles was repeating his earlier displays of anxiety, displays that he couldn't remember. It was Friday, and his dad still wasn't home. He worried that something had happened, rationalized that nothing probably had happened, rationalized again that it was entirely possible that something HAD happened, and repeated the cycle. He had scheduled another appointment for Saturday at 4, but he had a feeling he wasn't going to make it.

And he was right about that feeling. The party had finally come back around noon Saturday, looking defeated. They were organizing a search party. His dad wasn't among them. His dad was why they were going back out there.

There was no way that Stiles was sitting back this time. He was a flurry of limbs and Adderall and poking his nose shamelessly into information that he shouldn't have access to. By the time he was supposed to see Ms. Morrell, he had packed a bag, thrown it in his jeep, and begun speeding along toward the mountains.

Panic had fully set in, but he kept it at bay with sheer determination. He was going to find his father if it was the last thing he did. His father was the only thing he had left. He had lost his mother, and his memories of how he had even dealt with that were gone, if he had ever dealt with it at all. He was a mess. He couldn't lose his dad, he just. He couldn't. His hands tapped nervously on the steering wheel as he sped along, sparing glances at the stack of pages in his seat. The region grew rockier, and the woods grew thicker. Still he didn't slow. He had to be too far gone before anyone realized that he was missing.

#

Things had mostly returned to normal in the castle. John's coughing increased in frequency, and harshness. Boyd tried to cook him something suitable, but they weren't allowed to bring him food often. Lydia came down with tea as much as she could make excuse for. Scott sat mournfully ouside his cell, trying to provide light. John had attempted conversation, but Scott was too crestfallen. John only managed to get out of him that he didn't remember anything from before the castle, and that was that.

It was late at night when Stiles found the place. He marveled at the castle, hoping that it would provide some shelter from the drizzle that was falling, evidence of the rain that had decided to plague the area since Wednesday. He was surprised it hadn't yet turned to snow. He grabbed his bag, turning his flashlight on and heading up the courtyard. He stopped when he saw a glint just inside the gates, and bent to pick it up.

It was a badge. He turned it over in his hands, his stomach twisting when he realized that he recognized it. It was his dad's badge. He looked up to the doors of the castle, and suddenly the entire thing seemed much more immense and threatening. He pocketed the badge, abandoning his flashlight and his bag and running inside.

Scott was shuffling out of the passage to the dungeons when he heard the door. Two visitors in one week? He hurried down the corridors as quickly as he could, stopping short when he neared the entryway.

"Dad?" Stiles called out, his breath coming in short bursts as he looked around wildly. "DAD!" He yelled louder.

A million things were running through Scott's mind. "Shhhh!" He urged the young man. "Shut up!" He jumped onto Stiles' toe, earning a yelp from the other.

"What the hell?" Stiles hissed, bewildered and upset. A gust of wind caused the door to swing shut with an ominous slam. Scott lit up his wicks.

Stiles yelped, springing away, falling to the ground. He crawled backwards. "Oh my god it's a talking candlestick." He whimpered.

"My name is Scott." Scott said, slightly offended. "And you need to take your voice down by about 50 decibles." He warned. "The master will hear you." He added in an unhelpfully creepy whisper.

"The master?" Stiles questioned.

"He's already taken one prisoner." Scott said grimly.

Stiles perked up at this. "Prisoner? You mean my dad? Was he in a police uniform by any chance?" he asked hopefully.

Scott was surprised at this. "Y-yes, actually." He looked around cautiously. "Come, this way." He beckoned, hopping off down the hall.

Stiles scrambled to his feet, following. He tried to muffle his noises, but felt as though he were failing miserably. He grew more and more alarmed as they found their way to the dungeons, the castle seeming to grow colder as the architecture was more stone and less tapestry and carpet.

Scott stopped at the entrance to the block John was being held in, motioning that Stiles should go on in.

"Dad?" Stiles called out carefully.

"Stiles?" His father coughed, and Stiles nearly collapsed from relief.

"Dad!" He exclaimed, rushing to the door his father's voice had come from.

An arm reached out between the bars at the bottom of the door. "Son. Son, you have to get out of here, Derek isn't in his right mind, he'll-"

"Dad, dad what are you talking about? Who is Derek? I'm not leaving you, you're sick, I'm getting you out of here." Stiles assured him.

"Stiles, no. You have to go, before it's too late!" John warned, clutching his son's arm.

But it was already too late. Scott's wicks went out, leaving them in darkness. A shaft of moonlight pooled on the stone a few feet away, the drizzle having stopped, a break in the clouds allowing the full moon to show its face.

Derek's form loomed in the doorway to the cell block. A growl was the only indication of his presence.

"WHO ARE YOU? HOW DID YOU FIND THIS PLACE!?" He demanded.

Stiles jumped, turning so that his back was pressed against the cell door. He was terrified, but he was also pissed.

"I came for my dad! Let him out of here!" He replied. Derek roared in response.

"YOU DARE MAKE DEMANDS OF ME, IN MY OWN CASTLE?" He questioned, stalking closer.

"He's sick! He needs to see a doctor! Let him go, I swear, I'll do anything!" Siles was begging now.

"Stiles-" His dad warned from behind him.

"THERE IS NOTHING YOU CAN DO FOR ME! HE IS AN INTRUDER, HE DESERVES HIS PUNISHMENT!"

"If you're so intent on having a prisoner, take me instead!" Stiles offered without thinking. "Just let him go!"

The offer was met with silence. John tried to choke out a word, but was overcome with a coughing fit instead.

"You would stay here in his stead?" Derek's voice was softer now, but no less threatening.

Stiles raised his chin, trying to ignore the shaking in his hands. "Yes." He said.

"How do I know you won't try to leave?" Derek pressed.

"I give you my word." Stiles' voice wavered, but didn't break.

"Stiles!" His dad protested.

"Very well." Derek accepted, stalking up to the door. He grabbed a key and threw the door open, dragging John out of the cell. "You will LEAVE THIS PLACE!" He snarled at John, sending the sheriff skittering backwards, still reaching for his son. Stiles lunged forward, capturing him in a brief embrace before he was ripped away and thrown back towards the cell.

"GO!" Derek roared at John, and he began dragging the sheriff toward the door.

Once John was gone, Derek turned back to Stiles. "You will do as I command you." He ordered.

Stiles' mind was racing. He didn't know what he had just gotten himself into, nor did he entirely know what was going on. "Step into the light." He found himself saying.

He could feel Derek's surprise in the air, but the beast did as he asked. Stiles fell backwards in horror, scrambling into the cell and shutting the door behind him. He heard Derek huff and lock the door before turning and leaving him in solitude.

Stiles sat in the cell in shock, still trying to process what had just happened. He was being held prisoner by a giant beast, which he figured was the one that his dad had been calling Derek. A tear leaked from his eye and he wiped it away stubbornly. His dad would be fine. He would go back to Beacon Hills, get backup, and they would come get him. His dad wouldn't just leave him here.

John, at that moment, was running out into the courtyard. He scrambled along the path, gingerly picking up his son's abandoned belongings and making his way to the jeep. He climbed in, ready to drive back to town with a vengeance, and get someone to help him save his son. He realized after a few moments that Derek still had his gun, or that it was at least in the castle. He had left it by the chair. He set his jaw and put the jeep in gear, and drove.

#

"Derek please." Scott begged.

"Why are you so insistent about this?" Derek demanded.

"I have a feeling." He admitted, but refused to elaborate. "Just give him a room! He traded his own life for his father's, don't you think that deserves a little bit of comfort, or at the very least, respect? It's unfair to keep him locked in that cell."

Derek huffed, turning on Scott. "You think it's him!" He accused.

"Admittedly, yes. You can't deny the appeal of the thought!" He pleaded. "You don't have to woo him, just give the boy a proper room!"

Derek turned away, angry. "No, YOU give him a room!" He stalked to the dungeons, leaving Scott to rush to keep up.

When Scott arrived, the cell door was unlocked, and Derek was nowhere in sight. Stiles was looking at the door in terror and confusion. Scott eased it open and peered inside. "Hey," He beckoned to Stiles. "What's your name?"

Stiles stared suspiciously for a moment. "Stiles." He answered after hesitation.

"Well Stiles. Come on. Let's get you somewhere more comfortable."

Confused, Stiles rose to his feet, but followed Scott. He looked around as they reached the main corridor, spotting the way to the door. He could do it. He could make it; the candlestick couldn't hope to keep pace. But he could feel Derek's eyes on him, and he knew that he couldn't outrun that beast. And he had given his word. He was afraid of what would happen should he go back on it.

He turned away from the door, trudging after Scott, who was happily giving him a rundown on the castle. "And that way is the dining room, Boyd is an excellent cook, you won't want to miss dinner." The candlestick was far too cheerful and Stiles was wary.

Halfway down the corridor they met Derek, who looked torn. The beast pointed to a door. "That one." He said gruffly.

Stiles stepped over and peered inside. Scott hadn't been kidding. "You're giving me a room," He asked dubiously, "With a bed, and everything?"

"YOU DON'T LIKE IT?" Derek yelled, causing both Stiles and Scott to jump.

"Master, please-"

"Maybe I don't!" Stiles shot back, earning him a look of shock from both Scott and Derek. He stepped inside, slamming the door behind him. He leaned against it, listening to Derek's growls as he retreated to his own wing. Scott hovered anxiously outside the door before disappearing himself.

Stiles finally relaxed, looking around the room. The bed looked comfortable enough. He walked towards it, flinging himself onto the mattress once he was close enough. He had managed to land himself with a window view of the back end of the castle, and he glared at what would normally be a beautiful scene of moonlit forest and mountain. He rolled over, burying his face in his arms. He began to cry.

After a few minutes he berated himself, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. He stood up on shaky legs, deciding to have a look around. He rifled through the desk, fluffed the curtains on the bed, and stepped over to the armoire. To his shock it bent down to peer at him.

"Hi!" It exclaimed, obviously excited. "A visitor! Isn't this exciting! What is your name, sweet cheeks?" It fawned.

"Um, Stiles." He told it.

"I'm Erica. Here for all of your dressing needs! This is just so exciting! And I must say, you definitely are a handsome one. Although you're lacking in certain taste, if you don't mind me saying. Not that I care if you do." Stiles grew uneasy as the wardrobe began to check him out. This was just unnatural.

"Right." He said. "I don't think I'll need to be dressing for much of anything." He said in a defeated voice.

"Oh, nonsense. Look , I've got," She opened one of her doors, and a few birds flew out of it. "Oh my god!" She exclaimed as she slammed her door shut. "That is so embarassing." She chuckled, opening her doors again. "I've got everything we need in order to make you a gorgeous piece of work. You've definitely got the potential. And I've been itching for some company! Nobody to dress anymore, I'm afraid." She sighed. "Not since... well I don't remember since when. Since ever, I guess. Isn't that strange." She regarded Stiles.

"You're strange." He told her, backing away slightly. I'm gonna uh, I'm gonna be over here..." He trailed off, motioning toward the bathroom.

Erica pouted, if armoires could pout. "Fine. Look scraggly and worn out, I don't care." She huffed.

#

"Just ask him to dinner!" Scott insisted. Jackson was actually backing him up on this one.

"What could it hurt?" He asked Derek.

Derek regarded them suspiciously. Scott and Jackson never agreed. "Ask him. To dinner?" He asked skeptically.

"Yes. Show him you're not a big bad monster, but in fact a giant cuddly puppy like we all know you are!" Scott insisted.

"Scott, he's not cuddly, nor is he a puppy." Jackson pointed out in a flat voice.

"That's not the point. The point is he's terrified of you, and we need to fix that." Scott said, his voice full of authority.

"He's right you know," Lydia's voice came to them as she and Isaac approached. "Give him a chance to calm down, and then ask him down to dinner. The poor thing is probably starving." She said. "You're a terrible host." She added, just to add insult to Derek.

He snarled at her, but she didn't back down. He shrank back into his chair, defeated. "Fine. I will ask him to dinner. But someone has to first MAKE dinner."

"Oh trust me, Boyd has got that down." Isaac chirped. He and Lydia turned around to deliver the knews to the kitchen.

Scott grinned triumphantly as Derek rose. And frowned when Derek collapsed into his chair again. "What if he doesn't come?" He asked in a pathetic voice.

"He will, Derek. So long as you don't scare him again. Or make him angry, which you seem to be doing in equal parts." Scott scolded.

#

Stiles was laying on his back, staring at the top of the four poster that he had found to be the most comforting thing in the entire castle. It got bonus points for not talking. He was snuggled into the pillows, but lay on top of the blankets, his shoes abandoned somewhere on the floor at the foot of the bed.

A loud knock at the door caused him to jump a litle, and look irritably in its direction. "What." He said, emotionless.

The knocking persisted. He sighed heavily, getting up and padding over to the door to answer it. "What?" He repeated, more annoyed this time.

His tone infuriated Derek. Instead of the quasi-polite informing of dinner he had planned on delivering, what escaped his mouth was "You will come to dinner!"

Scott coughed behind him. Stiles raised his eyebrows, unimpressed.

"I mean." Derek breathed out of his nose, growing irritated. "Will you come for dinner?" He gritted out.

"No." Stiles said, and shut the door.

Derek's jaw dropped, and he looked at Scott, motioning at the door. His entire body conveyed a mixture of "Did you see that?" and "I told you!"

Scott merely prompted him to knock again.

"Go away!" Stiles' voice was muffled on the other side of the door.

Derek huffed. "Dinner is at seven! You either eat with me..." He tried to come up wih something convincing. "OR YOU STARVE!" He shouted at the door, his impatience winning the day. He ignored Scott's pointedly disappointed look as he stormed away.

Stiles collapsed near the bed, close to tears. "Oh my god, I'm being such a baby." He whimpered. The door creaked open, but he was too busy wallowing in his own misery to notice.

"There, there." A soothing voice reached him. He glanced down to see a teapot accompanied by a chiped teacup. "It will be alright. Derek isn't always like this. He's not used to someone as stubborn as he is being around, is all. Unless you count me." Lydia informed him, pouring her contents into Isaac, who padded over to Stiles to offer a warm drink. Stiles simply stared.

"I'm Lydia, and this is Isaac." She said warmly. Erica inched closer, and Stiles grabbed Isaac, peering at him.

"Why does everything around here move and talk?" He asked desperately. "What happened to all of the people?"

This question seemed to confuse everyone. "Frankly we're not sure." Lydia said. "It's always been like this, just us around here. No visitors. Your father was the first."

Mention of his father caused Stiles' throat to constrict, and he set Isaac back on the ground.

"I'm sorry about him, by the way." Lydia offered. "He was such nice company. Derek overreacted. I think it was the gun that made him so angry." She said offhandedly.

"Gun? Of course." Stiles sighed, turning to rest his back against the bed, staring miserably down at his company.

"Do you need help dressing for dinner?" Erica asked hopefully, trying to change the subject. But Stiles just frowned, and Erica huffed. "I'm just trying to be useful." She complained. "It's been too long since I've gotten to do _anything_."

"I'm not going to dinner!" He insisted. Lydia made a tsking noise.

Stiles sighed again, reaching for Isaac, deciding that maybe something warm wouldn't hurt him. He took a sip, deciding that the tea was actually really good. Isaac chuckled. "Hey, that tickles." He squirmed in Stiles' grasp.

"Great. A ticklish, sentient teacup. Just what I need." He grumbled.

"For what it's worth, Derek actually wants you to like him. He just, he doesn't know how to get people to do that." Erica offered.

"Thanks." Stiles said dryly. "I gathered that."

"Just, think about dinner." Lydia pressed, nodding at Isaac. The two hobbled to the door together, Lydia looking back at Stiles while Isaac hopped into the hallway. "Boyd will be upset if you skip."

"Boyd? I think Scott mentioned him. He cooks, or something. What is he, a soup pot?" Stiles snorted as the door swung shut.

"No, he's an oven." Erica shrugged.

Stiles cast a disbelieving look in her direction.

#

Derek fumed. He had sat at the table for half an hour before concluding that Stiles wasn't going to join him. Scott and Jackson skittered anxiously around, always nervous in Derek's presence, especially when he was agiated.

"I TOLD YOU HE WOULDN'T COME!" Derek turned an accusatory glare to Scott.

"Well, maybe you should have asked him more politely." Scott huffed, refusing to take the blame.

"OR MAYBE I SHOULD HAVE LEFT HIM IN THE DUNGEON!" Derek stood, the chair screeching backwards, and stormed out of the room.

Scott and Jackson sighed in unison.

#

Stiles peered out the door. His stomach had been grumbling angrily for close to three hours now, and it wouldn't let him sleep. "Shhh!" He hissed at it as it once again made its desires known. He shuffled into the hallway, still in his socks. He wished desperately for his flashlight, because the occasional torch lining the hallway just wasn't cutting it. And his phone was dead. He shut the door silently behind him, Derek's threat still looming in the back of his mind.

Like hell he was going to starve. The rest of the castle inhabitants seemed too kind to let him do that. It was only Derek, he realized, that was an insufferable prick. Everyone, or rather, everyTHING else, had seemed... familiar. Friendly, and almost familial. He shook off the feeling that he knew these objects. That was ridiculous. He would remember if he had spent time traipsing around with animate objecs.

Or would he? He searched his memory, stumbling over the holes just has he had been doing for weeks. He frowned. Surely they would have recognized him if he'd been here before. He shook off his thoughts, focusing on his trip down the hallway.

Scott pulled Allison behind a drape, enjoying the sound of her giggles. "Shhh!" He urged her, though he couldn't contain his own amusement. The soft sound of footsteps, however, silenced them both.

"Look at him." Allison breathed as they peered around the curtain, staring after Stiles. "He looks so lonely." She lamented. Scott didn't say anything, merely slipping away from her and plodding towards the boy.

"Stiles." He whisper shouted after him. Stiles turned, less surprised than before to see Scott waving flaming arms at him.

"Stiles, where are you going?" Scott sounded vaguely alarmed, and that was mostly because he was worried that Stiles would wander into the west wing, which would be a terrible circumstance for all of them.

"I got hungry." Stiles shrugged. "Where's the kitchen?"

Scott breathed a sigh of relief. "Right this way. But I will warn you, Boyd is still upset.

#

"I spent hours preparing, cooking, simmering slowly. And then the boy doesn't even show!" Boyd fumed, the heat in the kitchen still high. The staff was putting away, finally done cleaning up after the spectacle that was Boyd in full cooking mode. He hadn't known what Stiles might like, so he made a little bit of everything, not concerned in the least that it was far more food than anyone would consume. He hadn't gotten to excercise his expertise in far too long, and was all too pleased to have the chance.

Pleasure that had been quashed by the lack of consumption that had happened post-cooking. He had been fuming for hours, leaving everyone in the kitchen to cower slightly away from him. Lydia was the only one who refused to do such, shooting back with equal intensity.

"I warned you!" She tutted at him. "How would you feel, far from home, with Derek demanding you eat with him! He probably thought he was going to BE dinner." She said as she fussed over Isaac, who was growing increasingly irritated with her ministrations.

"Lydia, calm down! I'm clean!" He whined as she had him dunked underneath the sudsy water another time.

"You're not clean until I say you're clean." She told him with the air of finality. All Isaac could do about it was grumble and sputter under the water.

"Now," She said as she looked over everything, finally satisfied with the state of the kitchen. "It's bedime. For everyone." She shot a look at Isaac, who shrank under her glare.

That order was negated by the sudden arrival of Scott. "He's hungry!" He exclaimed, which prompted the kitchen into immediate motion. Lydia and Isaac loaded up the cart, and Boyd cackled happily. He had everything warmed back up in minutes, and Scott headed out to the dining room where Jackson was grumpily seating Stiles.

"Dude, I would be grumpy too if my face had numbers on it." Stiles had finally relaxed enough to crack a joke, and Jackson was about to retort hotly when Scott entered.

"May I present," Scott said as the lights dimmed, a dramatic air around him, "Your dinner."

Music began playing in the background. A feeling of dread filled Stiles.

"Oh my god." He said, recognizing the tune. "Oh my god this is Beauty and the Beast." He realized. "I'm in Beauty and the Beast. This has to be some sort of cruel joke or something."

The music screeched to a halt. "I'm sorry?" Jackson asked incredulously. "While Derek certainly is a beast, you are no beauty."

Stiles paled. "Oh my god I'm Belle." He whimpered, covering his face with his hands. Scott stared on mutely, upset at his theatrics being interrupted. Lydia and Isaac peered out curiously from the kichen door where they had the carts of food ready. Jackson stared blankly at him.

Stiles peered out from between his fingers. "Is the gray stuff REALLY delicious?" He asked softly.

Scott grinned.

"You bet your ass it is." Jackson cut in, as defensive of Boyd's cooking as anyone.

"Cogsworth would never say that." Stiles pointed out.

"Well I'm not a Cogsworth, whoever that tool is." Jackson huffed, hopping off the table and beckoning to Lydia and Isaac. "But you are going to eat this, and you're going to like it. Although I do have to thank you for keeping Scott from bursting into musical number."

"Sure." Stiles said, preoccupied by the arrival of food.

Everyone was right. The gray stuff WAS delicious.

#

By the next morning, Stiles had conveniently, or magically, forgotten that his life was now running parallel to a Disney movie. Sunlight streamed through the curtains, and he stretched catlike in his bed, yawning contentedly. It wasn't raining, which seemed to be a sign from heaven that the day was going to turn out okay.

Erica threw open the curtains fully, blinding Stiles as he blinked wearily. "Up!" She chirped at him. "I haven't had fun in FAR too long!"

Stiles was terrified.

"So here we go, get out of those dingy old things you're wearing. And get in the bath. Don't come out until you're clean." She glared at him, and suddenly Stiles was disturbed that he knew exactly how threatening a wardrobe could be.

He began bathing in a hurry, but realizing that he was going to be privy to Erica's full wrath when he finished prompted him to slow down. He began to wash himself at a leisurely pace, idly thinking back to his father, and what would happen if a search party found him here, in the bath, or being dressed by a piece of furniture. He snorted, then sneezed as some bubbles found their way up his nose.

He stepped with dread out of the bath, drying himself off and wrapping himself in a towel. Erica threw some underewear at him as he stepped back into the room. "I do not need to see your nudity." She laughed at him. "I'm just here to make you look good."

As soon as he was dressed, which took a lot longer than he was comfortable, Stiles admired himself in the mirror. And he had to admit, Erica had good taste. He raised his eyebrows, pleased.

"See, I told you so." She said smugly from behind him.

#

John was upset. He had arrived home, bursting into the station to the surprise of the officers who had stayed behind. He was babbling madly, and they sat him down, urging him to stop talking. They refused to listen to anything he had to say until he had had a good night's sleep. Which, of course, he didn't get.

So the next day when the rest of the officers had trudged inside, the object of their search returned, he paced around the room, nearing collapse. He sounded mad, he knew, but he couldn't just vaguely tell everyone that his son was locked up in a castle for some unknown reason. So he told them the truth.

They sent him home. Mr. LeGume, who was working as a police officer, had the rest of them convinced that John had lost his mind. Stiles was likely at home, and perfectly fine. Internally, he was grinning. The sheriff had unwittingly told him the location of a werewolf pack that he hadn't known existed. He wasn't going to waste this opportunity. And if they had Stiles, it was all the better. His daughter would be pleased.

It was Giselle, though, who suggested it. The sheriff was crazy. Not only was he unfit for duty, but he needed help. Real, professional help. She wanted him committed.

All she managed, though, was to get him admitted to the hospital. The doctors gave the diagnosis that he was merely babbling so madly because he was so sick. Pneumonia, and frostbite was likely. That, coupled with his exhaustion, was the source of his hallucinations and hysterics.

But nobody could deny that Stiles was indeed missing. Giselle's father took control of the situation, somehow convincing everyone to let him handle this. Giselle sat smugly back, readying the weapons. They were going hunting, and if she could somehow convince Stiles that she was his saving grace, he might just let her have him. She saw no way to lose in this scenario.

There was blood to be spilled.

#

Around midafternoon the snow began to fall. Stiles was restless. The pack had done their best to entertain him, but his curious nature was something none of them could cure. At length, Jackson had offered him a tour of the castle. Stiles agreed, and hours later found them back in the grand entryway, Stiles exhausted of Jackson's running commentary.

Jackson's voice droned on in great detail about the place, but Stiles' interest was piqued only when he said, "And that's the west wing," brushing over the entire section as if it were a speck of dust on the carpet.

"What's that way?" He interrupted.

"Uhh. Nothing. Off limits. Don't go there." Jackson said, then gestured in another direction. "Shall we continue?" He suggested with a slight roll of his eyes, obviously miffed at the interruption. Stiles nodded, following the small clock, but his eyes were glued to the staircase to the west wing. The entire section was darker, and the fact that it was forbidden made it all the more appealing.

He waited until Jackson had launched into another explanation about something Stiles could care less about, and headed up the stairs, his footsteps quiet. He ventured to the top, looking back to make sure Jackson still hadn't noted his absence. He grinned, finding him still plodding along, talking proudly about whatever else this castle had to offer. Stiles figured he was just making things up to distract Stiles. He sure sounded ridiculous enough.

It was colder as he drew near the west wing, and the lack of maintenance was obvious. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling, and dust lined the walls. It looked as though it should have been empty for years, but the dirt hinted at only a few weeks at most. A pair of doors loomed up in front of him, and Stiles looked around cautiously before pushing it open.

The room beyond was filled with rubble. Everything was broken, as if someone had grown enraged, and stayed that way. It didn't take Stiles long to guess who. He took a few steps forward, his curiosity disippating. There was nothing here for him to see. He couldn't find reason why it would be forbidden. It was basically the junkyard of the castle.

He turned to leave, and a glow was caught in the corner of his eye. He stopped, and turned back around, moving towards it. A flower was suspended in the air, caught under a glass case. One petal had fallen off of it, and was lying wilted on the table. Stiles stared at it in awe, transfixed. He removed the cover, setting it to the side. He wanted to touch the flower.

But his attention was quickly drawn to the mirror that was laying next to it, glinting in the moonlight. He frowned, picking it up, noting that it was in pristine condition, wheras all the other mirrors in the room, and there were a lot, were shattered. He stared at his reflection for a moment, his mouth falling open when the scene changed.

It was the Beacon Hills Hospital, and he saw Melissa McCall fretting over something. He was confused, but kept watching. She walked into a room, and began talking in what looked like a soothing tone to whoever was in the bed.

Stiles recognized that whoever. It was his dad. He nearly dropped the mirror, and his heart rate sped up. His dad, his dad was in that hospital bed. And he didn't look like he was doing well. Was this real? A terrible feeling deep down in his gut told him that it was.

A roar caused him to actually drop the mirror this time. It fell with a clang next to the flower, and he spun around to see Derek snarling at him. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?" Derek shouted.

"I-"

"THIS WING IS FORBIDDEN!" He bellowed, swinging at the nearest object, breaking it even further. Stiles finched, shrinking away. "GET OUT!" Derek threatened, sweeping over to where Stiles was.

Stiles ran. He dodged through the wreckage, Derek on his heels, howling the entire way. He ran all the way down the stairs, to the front doors. He yanked them open, his word be damned, and ran out into the cold.

It was only then that he remembered that it had begun to snow. He ignored that, his terror driving him on. He sprinted across the courtyard, wrenching the gate open and plowing into the cold wilderness.

After a few minutes he slowed, the chill and abating of adrenaline catching up to him. He shivered, wrapping his arms around himself, looking around. He was stupid, he realized. He had no idea where he was, where to go, and he was in no way dressed for the weather. He was going to die out here, he realized with horror. He had rushed out, thinking only of his father and of his own safety, and in doing so had damned himself.

Then he heared the wolves.

"What?" He whimpered. "There are no wolves in California." He protested, but the creatures growling at him hungrily couldn't be dismissed with a fact that was, apparently, wrong. Unless, he conceded, he had ended up so far north that he wasn't in California anymore. Having not paid much attention to the road signs as he had sped along in search of his father, he really couldn't say.

The first wolf lunged at him, and he turned, running for his life. He tripped over a branch that had been covered with snow, and he reached for it. It was small enough for him to brandish, and he swung it at the wolf. It was effective, but only briefly. The wolf got back to its feet easily, now angered. Stiles whimpered, terror charged into full blown panic.

"Oh my god, I'm going to die, I'm too young to die!" He cried, throwing up his arms in defense as another wolf dove for him. To his surprise though, it was met with a familiar roar, and barrelled over by a much larger bundle of fur. Stiles watched, mouth agape, as Derek tore at the wolves. He stood, helping by continuing to beat some with a stick.

They fought well together, Derek swiping at a wolf that was flying at Stiles from behind and Stiles beating the one that dove at the flank that Derek's action left exposed. Soon the wolves scattered, but Derek was a bloody mess. Stiles himself had a scratch across his cheek, but other than that he found himeslf unscathed. Derek looked at Stiles through pained eyes, grabbing him and dragging him through the snow back through the castle.

Stiles didn't fight him. In fact, he found his feet, and helped Derek as he limped along. It was freezing, and there was no way that Stiles was going to fight the warmth and comfort he knew he would find back at the castle.

They made it through the door, but Derek was wearing quickly. He collapsed in the room with the giant fireplace, unconscious.

#

"And then the thing was lunging at me, and Derek just jumps in all claws and growling, and flings the thing into the tree, and I swear to god I heard its back break, and then there were wolves everywhere and they were just like RAAHR!" Stiles was motioning around wildly, gesticulating his story as Jackson, Scott, Lydia, Isaac, and Allison were gathered around him, listening intently, "But Derek, man Derek was just like ROOOOR! And you should have heard the whimpers from that little wolf, man the thing didn't stand a chance!"

"See! I told you he had a soft spot!" Lydia said smugly. Stiles dropped his hands, turning to glare at her.

"You're ruining my story." He pouted at her. She merely laughed at him, and made him drink more tea. Derek began to stir.

Stiles put Isaac back on the ground, heading over to Derek. "I would have put you in the chair or something," He said once Derek had opened an eye and found Stiles' gaze, "But you're too damn heavy."

Derek only grunted in reply, pulling himself up, wincing in pain. Lydia brought over a bowl of hot water and a rag, intending to clean Derek's wounds.

"Sit." Stiles ordered Derek, grabbing the rag thoughtlessly and dipping it in the water. He wrung it out, then moved it to the gashes on his arm.

Derek howled, grabbing his arm and clutching it out of Stiles' reach. "That stings!" He cried.

"Well if you don't let me clean it, it's going to get infected. Then you'll be wishing for that sting." Stiles shot back. Derek glared at him.

"This is your own fault." Stiles continued. "If you hadn't come after me, you wouldn't be hurt. I would be a pile of meat at the bottom of about ten bellies, and you wouldn't have to worry about me anymore."

"Well if you hadn't run away," Derek argued, "I wouldn't have had to come after you!"

"Well if you hadn't scared me, I wouldn't have run away!" Stiles huffed, finally getting a hold of Derek's arm, pressing the rag to it. Derek hissed, but didn't pull away. He chose instead to glower.

"Thank you, by the way." Stiles said, quieter his time. Everyone else was watching silently, fascinated.

"For?" Derek pressed.

Stiles rolled his eyes. "For taking me captive and ruining my life." He said dryly. His tone grew serious, then. "You _saved_  my life." He met Derek's eyes, indicating that he meant his thanks.

Derek didn't know what to say to that. He merely stared back, distracted by the color of Stiles' eyes, and the scratch that ran across his cheek. He could have prevented that, he _should_  have prevented that. He shook his head, huffing. "Are you done yet?" He asked in relation to his arm.

"Yeah, yeah. Your arm will survive." Stiles said, dropping the bloody rag into the cooling water.

#

Back in Beacon Hills, the hunters were growing excited. Giselle led the family, her lust for bloodshed contagious. "We'll kill these beasts," She proclaimed, "And their hides will grace the floors of this home for years to come!" He brothers cheered, and her parents cast approving glares at her. "And Stiles will finally realize that we were meant to be together." She grinned wickedly.

"We leave tomorrow night." Her father informed the family.

#

Derek sat brooding, staring at the flower. It was losing its petals rapidly, too rapidly. At the rate it was going, they would all be gone by tomorrow evening, and by then everything would fall apart. He had long since stopped questioning how he knew that this flower meant everything, instead accepting it as he had accepted everything else. He would have to try harder with Stiles, he realized. Somehow he would have to show Stiles that he wasn't a monster, and that he actually cared for him, something that Derek wasn't good at.

But that wasn't everything. He found that he remembered Stiles. He wasn't sure from where, but he was certain they had met before. What he didn't understand was how he could forget him. There was nobody like Stiles, and someone so vibrant and full of life couldn't just vanish from memory.

Could they?

#

Stiles slept in, given how late he had been up the night before, and the exhausing events. But Erica refused to let him miss a late breakfast, and so he was hurried around, finding himself alone in the dining room with a bowl of oatmeal. He sighed, spooning it into his mouth, his stomach gurgling joyfully at being filled.

The pack seemed to have ideas about how to entertain Stiles. Scott insisted on showing him the back garden, where plants had actually still been growing before the weather got colder. It was well tended, which surprised Stiles. Derek appeared out in the snow soon afer, looking grumpy and as though he had been coerced into it. Stiles caught Lydia triumphantly returning to the castle. He grinned.

He gathered a bundle of snow in his hands, lobbing it at Derek. The beast turned, ready to threaten whoever had assaulted him, but all he found was Stiles standing there, grinning innocently. He narrowed his eyes, scooping snow into his large paws, and threw it at Stiles, knocking him over. Stiles collapsed into laughter, and Derek found himself relaxing, a smile gracing his features.

After lunch, Erica fretted over Stiles more than he figured was necessary. Apparently dinner tonight was going to be a formal affair, which baffled Stiles. "You really ARE excited about having guests, aren't you?" He asked her, and she hummed contentedly as she whirled around him.

A blonde face suddenly matched itself to the voice the armoire was using, and Stiles was startled. Small gaps in his memory were filled wih it, calling itself Erica, always happy to assist with fashion advice, which usually got shot down by... someone. He remembered someone brave, and badass. And also sickly, which confused him. Stiles frowned at the mirror he was perched in front of.

Meanwhile Derek was sitting miserably in front of a mirror of his own, Scott trying vainly to prune him up, with Jackson sitting amused off to the side. Derek grunted his displeasure at yet another of Scott's attempts, but his thoughts were elsewhere. Stiles was swirling through his mind, memories popping up as if from a dream. Scott tried again, pulling back and grinning his best ta da!, and Derek could see an actual face, brown hair edging the innocent features. "Scott?" He asked, slightly confused.

"No?" Scott frowned. "No, you're right. No." Scott reached to try something else, but Derek stopped him.

"What do you remember?" Derek asked him. "From before?"

Scott blinked. "Before?"

Jackson grew uncomfortable.

"Before the castle." Derek said slowly.

"Nothing, I don't remember anything." Scott sighed, dropping his arms.

"What about Stiles?" Derek pressed.

Scott dipped his head to the side. "Stiles?"

"Think."

And so Scott thought. And what he found was a surprise. "Hey, I remember Stiles." He said triumphantly. "Yeah, we knew each other." He said slowly, "We were..." He stopped, his memories coming back in full force. "Oh." He said softly. "Oh my god." He cast a panicked look at Derek, who was looking back expectantly. "Think about it Derek. It'll come back to you." Scott assured him.

"But while you do that, we have really got to get you fixed up. Everything hinges on your performance tonight." He sang, but he was more anxious than he had been before. Far more anxious.

Jackson slunk away, going to find Lydia, Isaac, and Boyd. He remembered too.

#

"Oh my god, and we've been here the entire time." Lydia exclaimed. "And I'm a teapot! I've been okay with being a teapot for... weeks!"

"Nevermind that, I'm a feather duster!" Allison challenged, shaking her fluffed end for emphasis.

"I think we're all missing the fact that I'm an oven, guys." Boyd cut in. Isaac merely grumbled.

"How long have we been like this?" Allison asked, panic lacing her voice. "And Stiles..." She trailed off. "Do you think he remembers yet?"

Jackson shook his head. "We would have heard about it by now, don't you think?" He deadpanned. "We would never have heard the end of it."

"But Derek doesn't remember yet, does he?" Lydia asked. "Because I can see him backing out of this really quickly, and us being stuck like this forever."

"He's starting to." Jackson said. "But he doesn't remember fully. Scott was the first.

"We have to tell Erica." Isaac spoke up.

"And Stiles." Allison said. "He needs to know. They both need to know."

The kitchen grew silent and tense. Nobody could argue with Allison, but they were all afraid of what would happen if Stiles and Derek refused to accept that they were Beauty and the Beast, and destined to fall in love.

"Am I the only one who is severely freaked out that we're living out Beauty and the Beast?" Boyd echoed everyone's thoughts, effectively breaking the tension.

Jackson looked up. "We are." He said, realization lacing his voice. "Stiles said that once! Remember, dinner? He was complaining that he was Belle, and something about the gray stuff. Has he known this whole time?"

"Or maybe he forgot again." Lydia poined out. "The magic is pretty strong, I can already feel it pulling at me. Although it's definitely weaker than it was before. I don't have the urge to dunk Isaac in a bubble bath anymore." She said, much to Isaac's relief. "We have to tell them both, and fast. Jackson, you and Isaac go and tell Derek. Allison and I will tell Stiles and Erica. Make him remember!" She ordered.

"Good luck." Boyd said, realizing that as a giant oven, he wasn't really a huge help. "Pray you don't get smashed, or worse."

"Oh trust me, I'm praying." Lydia said in a worried voice.

#

Another petal fell off of the flower. Two were left.

#

The hunters loaded their weapons into their vehicles, Giselle perched behind the wheel of one, a gleeful expression on her face.

#

Stiles sat on the edge of the bed, looking in disbelief at Lydia. "Oh my god you're a teapot!" Was all that he managed to say. "Lydia Martin is a teapot."

Allison and Lydia exchanged glances, while Erica stood mutely. "But you remember, right?" Lydia pressed nervously.

Stiles nodded. "I was seeing a psychiatrist, you know." He told them at length.

"What?" Allison asked.

"Ms. Morrell, actually. Funny. The thing is, there were so many holes in my memory, left by you guys vanishing from it. I didn't, I couldn't." He grew flustered, running a hand through his hair. "I mean, wih Scott gone, that's like, half of my life missing. And then the past couple of years? Forget it. I couldn't remember a thing, and it was freaking me out." He laughed. "And as it turns out, it was just a magical rendition of Beauty and the Beast needing a way to happen."

"Still needs to happen." Allison said impatienly. Stiles cast a wild glance at her, the full impact of her words sinking in.

"Uhh." He said intelligently.

"I'd rather not be stuck a wardrobe forever." Erica said helpfully.

"But how do I trick a magical flower into thinking I'm in love with Derek Hale?" He protested.

"That's the thing, Stiles. You _can't_  trick a magical flower into thinking you're in love with Derek Hale." Lydia explained. "You have to _be_  in love with Derek Hale."

"Great." Stiles flopped back on the bed, his mind going fifty miles a minute. He thought back to all of the time he had ever spent around Derek, his stomach twisting. He hadn't wanted to admit it to himself, much less anyone else. But now he didn't have a choice. The fate of the entire pack depened on this one fact.

He was in love with Derek Hale. And he had to say it.

#

"What?" Derek was taking this just about as well as everyone figured that he would.

"Just, think! You told Scott to think, and now I'm telling you to think!" Jackson pressed.

It wasn't processing for Derek. "Stiles." Scott tried. "Focus on Stiles."

Derek gave him a blank look. Still nothing.

Isaac took a turn. "Your name is Derek Hale. You're a werewolf, our alpha. Your entire family is dead, and you know what, we should probably not tell you to think about that. Um. You have a secret crush on Stiles Stilinski?" He tried.

Scott and Jackson gave him incredulous looks. Isaac sighed irriatably. "Oh, don't tell me I'm the ONLY one who's noticed?" The other two shrugged.

"His last name is Stilinski?" Derek raised a bestial eyebrow at them.

"Yes." Isaac said impatiently. "And you're going to have a great dinner with him tonight, the date you've always dreamed of. And he's going to tell you he loves you, and you're going to like it." He said, leaving no room for argument.

"Um. Sure." Derek said, his mind whirring. Whatever was said to him, he couldn't remember anything but a few random glimpses of Stiles. It made him believe the part about the secret crush.

#

Stiles allowed Lydia to lead him to the library doors, nervousness evident in his every step. "What if he hates me?" He pleaded. "What if he, I don't know, smashes my head ino a steering wheel?"

"Why would he do that?" Allison asked.

"He's done it before." Stiles shrugged.

"He won't." Lydia assured him. "You guys are Beauty and the Beast. He's going to get shot and you're going to cry about how you love him and everyhing will be okay, and Gaston will die." She said. "Whoever Gaston is supposed to be." She added dismissively.

"Oh." Stiles' heart sank. "Giselle. The LeGumes."

"Who?" Allison asked.

"There's a new family of hunters in Beacon Hills. Giselle has been hellbent on wooing me for some reason that I don't understand. She wants to marry me, and it's frankly really creepy. But if this is really happening like Beauty and the Beast, then she's on her way here right now, and her family wants to kill Derek. Wants to kill everyone, really. That's probably why they moved here in the first place." He said, distressed.

"But if nobody remembers us, then why would they be coming?" Lydia wondered.

Stiles' heart sank. "My dad. My dad remembered when he came here, he probably went back and told them everything. Which means that they know that you're here, and whether or not these are the werewolves they came for, they're probably going to want to kill everyone anyway."

"Well we're in no position to fight back like this!" Allison exclaimed. "Get in there, tell Derek you love him, mean it, and let's get some kind of defense set up!" She pushed Stiles towards the door, succeeding only in sliding his foot a couple inches forward.

"Right. No pressure." Stiles gulped, stepping into the library.

Derek turned around, caught sight of Stiles standing nervously in the doorway, and chose that moment to remember everything.

#

The LeGumes were closing in, the castle in their sights. Giselle had traded off driving with one of her brothers, and now sat in the back, loading weapons.

#

Another petal fell off the flower.

#

Derek blinked. "Stiles?" He asked curiously. He looked around at the giant library, realization dawning on his features.

"Hey Derek." Stiles said, inching forward. _What the hell,_ he thought, and picked up his pace, walking until he was standing next to Derek. "How ya doin?" He asked lamely.

"I see what has to happen here." Derek sighed, turning to gaze out the window.

"I was kind of hoping we'd get to dance first." Stiles said sarcastically, effectively bringing Derek's gaze back to him.

"Anyway, the point is, I love you, and I have to say that so everyone can turn back into themselves into whatever, because if I don't, everyone is not going to be themselves, and we're all going to die." He said in one breath.

"I figured out most of that. But the part about dying is starting to confuse me." Derek said.

"Uh. Hunters. Incoming. Quickly." Stiles said.

"Well we're not turning into ourselves." Derek pointed out.

"Maybe I'm not allowed to say it so casually." Stiles sighed. "Magic doesn't like making things easy, does it?"

"Stiles." Derek warned. "Running out of time here."

Somewhere in the west wing of the castle, the last petal loosened.

Stiles huffed, his heart racing. "Fine." He looked Derek squarely in the eye. "No, I can't." He dropped his gaze again, his nervousness getting the best of him.

"Stiles, you literally never stop talking. Surely you can manage three words." Derek pleaded impatiently, his own heart rate speeding up.

"Derek, I love you." Stiles blurted out.

The petal fell to the ground.

"That was four." Derek said, attempting levity.

But then he began to glow, so it kind of fell flat.

Everyone else began to glow too.

#

The LeGumes pulled up, piling out of their cars, weapons loaded, cocked, and ready to go. "Justice is about to be served." Giselle grinned, taking the lead.

#

The doors were flung open. Lydia spun toward the sound, dust flying off of her dress, her strawberry blonde locks swirling around her. Allison and Erica made similar movements, still in the clothes they had come to the castle in.

Scott, Jackson, and Isaac looked up from where they were standing, their excited expressions fading into concern. They bolted towards the source of the noise.

Boyd crashed in from the kitchen, relieved to be free at last. "I am never cooking anything ever again." He said to nobody in particular.

Derek looked up from where he was staring at Stiles, alarm growing on his face. Stiles spun around, the expression of awe not having quite faded from his. "Stay here." Derek ordered, running to find the rest of his pack.

"Right." Stiles nodded, and then he fainted. A bullet whizzed past his falling figure.

#

When he came to, he was sitting in the plush chair in the room with the big fireplace. He didn't open his eyes. "Please tell me all of this has just been a massive nightmare, I'm waking up from a week long coma or something, and nobody ever disappeared to a magical castle." He begged.

"No. We all disappeared to a magical castle." Lydia's voice cut through the anxious silence surrounding them.

"Great." Stiles said numbly, wrenching his eyes open, an action he instantly regretted.

Nearly everyone was injured. The werewolves were healing, but Allison and Lydia weren't holding up so well. Lydia's arm had been grazed by a bullet, and Allison had taken a knife to the hip. Stiles found himself immensely bruised and battered, and his head was pounding.

"What happened, anyway? Did I get a concussion from fainting, or what?" He asked miserably.

"No, that was probably from when Giselle, at least I think that's what they were calling her, dragged you throughout the castle, proclaiming you as her prize. I don't think she cared how many times your head hit the staircase." Scott told him.

"Damnit Giselle." Stiles groaned, his eyes falling shut again. "What happened to all the evil vegetables?" He asked, making light of their last name.

"Well Giselle fell off of the side of the castle, as predicted, given the events of certain Disney movie." Allison said. "A few more got torn apart by werewolf induced rage; Boyd and Erica are burying the parts. The rest turned tail, probably traumatized for life. I don't think they're used to losing."

"And Derek?" Stiles opened his eyes, looking around the room. Everyone grew silent.

"He's not doing so good." Isaac said in a quiet voice, looking over to a point somewhere behind Stiles and to the left.

Stiles craned to peer around the chair, and his gaze settled on Derek's limp form lying on a long bench, bloodied up and breathing shallowly.

"He got hit by wolfsbane." Lydia said worriedly. "We got it out of his system, but it was really close to his heart." Stiles stood, limping over to where Derek was laying. "He's going to feel like crap for at least a week."

"Derek." Stiles murmured, his hand hovering over Derek's chest, which was still bleeding slowly.

Derek's eyes fluttered open. "Hey." He grunted.

"You know, I was hoping this would turn out as least painfully as the movie as possible. No such luck, I see." He gazed down at Derek's injuries.

"I'll live." Derek's lips lifted into a small smile. "And you'll get your happily ever after. I promise."

Stiles smiled back. "Well, so long as you promise." He sat next to Derek, leaning his head onto the other's shoulder.

"Plus the occasional werewolf disaster." Derek said belatedly. Stiles punched him weakly.

#

They stayed the night at the castle, heading home the next morning. They found their cars buried in the stables, predictably out of gas. They didn't let that defeat them, though, and they all piled into the SUV that the LeGumes had left behind, being sure to dump all of the weapons. They could return for their own vehicles later.

The ride to Beacon Hills was a quiet one. Scott drove, Allison in the passenger seat next to him. Erica, Isaac, Derek, and Stiles were in the next row, stuffed together, with Jackson, Lydia, and Boyd sitting in the back. The leaned on one another non-discriminantly, all equally exhausted. As soon as they were able, someone made sure to find a phone and call ahead, ensuring that there would be many concerned parents and questions waiting for them when they got back home.

#

"What the hell do you think you were doing?" Stiles demanded. They had finally caught their sorcerer, and with Deaton's help, had placed him within a circle that rendered his spellcasting useless. He could do nothing but answer their questions.

"Usually the interrogations start with the 'who are you' demands." The sorcerer said dryly.

"I don't have time for your sarcasm." Stiles said in an annoyed tone. "But if you're really so insistent then go ahead, tell us your name. And then tell us what the hell you think you were doing."

"My name is John Jacob Jingleheimer Smith." The guy smirked.

Stiles stared at him for a long moment. "That's my name too." He said in a deadpan voice. "Now please, answer my damn question."

The guy sat back with a sigh. "I know your reputation. Your pack blunders around, making rash decisions even when you're not sure exactly what's going on. You stick your nose into everything, even when it doesn't concern you."

Derek growled. "It's my territory. That means it concerns me."

"You werewolves and your territory." The guy shook his head. "But you also have a pretty large lack of awareness of your territory."

Derek's eyes flashed.

"For instance, were you aware that an entire clan of witches has been moving into your precious territory, and that they have been snooping around and scoping out the area, intent on using the innate magical nature of the land to perform their nefarious rituals and summon their god, which in turn would cause the destruction of half of the earth and the enslavement of every mortal not directly involved in the summoning?" The man asked in a serious voice.

Derek and Stiles looked at one another blankly. Derek shrugged helplessly.

"I didn't think so. So when I get here after tracking them for years, waiting for them to find the right place so they'll let their guard down enough for me to take them out, did you really think that I was going to let a blundering pack of werewolves stand in my way? A magical curse is much easier when you've got a model, and I happened to have a castle nearby. Sue me if I chose a Disney movie. You're just lucky that true love was here to win the day." He smirked again, obviously amused at the turn of events. "But I do believe I'm owed some thanks."

"No." Stiles said simply. "No you don't just waltz in and put a magical spell on unsuspecting people. If you were really so concerned, you should have come to us and said something about it."

The man raised his eyebrows, impressed by Stiles' refusal to bow out quietly.

"Fine. Don't thank me for single handedly saving the world."

"And what was with the effigys?" Stiles wanted to know.

"Their spirits. These witches, they've been around for a long time, surviving for centuries. They've managed to do so because when their corporeal forms die, their spirits drift along until they find a compatible body, where they take over. The effigys were meant to destroy their spirits along with their bodies, so they can't come back."

"And they're all dead, now? Permantently?" Derek asked.

"Yeah, I got them all. It was much easier once you lot were out of the way."

"Then it's time for you to leave." Derek said firmly. "And if you cross into my territory again, and I will know if you cross into my territory again, I will find you. You will tell me exactly why you're here, how long you'll be here, and whether or not you'd like us to stay out of your way, which we may or may not do. That's up to me. If you ever so much as touch any one of my pack with your magic, I will kill you."

"Not even protective magic?" The sorcerer mused.

Derek huffed. "It would have to be agreed on before hand."

The man regarded Derek for a moment. "Deal."

#

It took a few days after that for everything to die down. It was Christmas Eve when Stiles finally found a moment to himself, and he took advantage of it, driving over to Derek's apartment as soon as he could slip away from his father.

He had barely raised his hand to knock when the door opened. Derek stood aside, indicating that Stiles should come in. He stepped in nervously, not knowing what to expect at this point. The door shut quietly behind him. "Sooo." He began, his hands stuffing themselves in his pockets. "I was promised a happily ever after?" He looked at Derek with raised eyebrows.

"And I was promised a dance." Derek said flatly. Stiles' expression grew incredulous.

"W-what? You dance?" He asked. "I was totally kidding about that dance."

Derek smirked, stepping closer. "No, I don't." He clarified.

"Oh. So you were just being sarcastic." Stiles narrowed his eyes at Derek. "Don't do that to me."

Derek shrugged, a smile crossing his features. "I'll do what I like."

Stiles stared at him for a moment, enjoying their close proximity. Then he mirrored Derek's shrugged, his impatience winning.

"You know, in the movie, they get to kiss." He informed Derek.

"I've seen the movie." Derek sighed at him.

"So then why-" Stiles was cut off by Derek's lips pressing against his, and he smiled.


End file.
